Blog Tour: Strip Me Bare by Marissa Carmel with Chapter One

“I may have had more lovers than you, and I may take my
clothes off for countless women, but you are the only one who can strip me
bare.”

Do you ever stop loving someone just because
they’re gone? Five years ago Ryan Pierce disappeared from Alana Remington’s
life without leaving so much as a post-it note behind. He was the one she gave
her heart to, her soul to and her virginity to.So imagine her surprise when she finds him dancing at one of NYC’s
hottest male revues as Jack the Stripper.

Ryan never stopped loving Alana, and now that she
serendipitously dropped back into his life, he’s vowed never to lose her
again.But being together has its costs,
and challenges Alana isn’t sure she can handle.

She finally has Ryan back; but how in the world is
she supposed to share the love of her life with half of the women in New York
City?

Excerpt-

We stop in front of some hanging crystals. They
clink as Ryan pushes them aside, “after you.”I walk under an orange spotlight, into a small space with a white leather
couch deep enough to lie on and walls a warm golden yellow.

Can I even handle this? Five minutes ago he was
with another woman. Quite possibly in this same room doing God only knows
what.

“Why do you do this Ryan?” I expel. I know he
explained it in words, but I need to experience it to truly understand.

He ambles around me so close; the only thing separating
us is a whisper of air.

“I told you, the money,” he says as he unbuttons
his shirt.

“You said women too,” I watch him cautiously, my
gaze jumping between his eyes and his chest.

“That was before you walked back into my life.
You’re the only woman I want to touch now. The others, like you saw before,
it’s just an act. A business transaction. It’s what I have to do to get what I
want.”

“Doesn’t it make them feel used?” I flick my eyes
up at him.

“It mustn’t. They always come back.”

“You like it. I saw your face. That wasn’t an
act.”

Ryan stands right in front of me, his shirt
unbuttoned and dangling open. “I won’t lie to you Alana, I’ll never lie to
you,” his tone is hard, but seductive. “I do like the attention. But it’s not
real. It’s my job to sell attractiveness and fantasy, and I do it well. But
that’s all it is, fantasy and I know it. When I’m with you, that’s my real.”

My breath catches when he says the word real. I
can’t help but find the irony in his words; I’m exactly to him what he is to
me. Two people one and the same, both living a double life to get what they
want; a future and each other.

And that is what I want. A future, with Ryan.

I go to put my hands on his chest, but he steps
away shaking his head no. “In this room, it’s all about you,” he walks around,
stopping right behind me. “You have to tell me what you want Alana,” he
whispers in my ear and I almost go limp, the sound of his voice is erotic as hell.

I swallow hard, but can’t utter a single word,
because truth be told, I have no freakin’ idea what I want. At least, not in
this scenario.

Ryan starts to rub my shoulders. I think he can
feel my hesitation.

“Why are you so tense? This is supposed to be
fun.”

Fun? The word rattles around in my head. Fun - a
time or feeling of enjoyment or amusement.

Okay, let’s have some fun.

I turn around to face him and our eyes lock. “Show
me.”

“Show you what?” his tone dripping with
sensuality.

“Show me Jack the Stripper.”

Holy fuck!

Playlist-

Muse- Madness

Run- Leona Lewis

I Know You Want Me- Pitbull

Troublemaker- Olly Murs feat. Flo Rida

What You Wanted- OneRepublic

(I Just) Died
in You Arms Tonight (Club Remix)- Cutting Crew

Counting Stars- OneRepublic

Author Bio-

Marissa Carmel has loved writing ever since a young age. She
has a duel degree in History and Political Science, but took as many creative
writing classes in college as she could. She spent most of her twenties
bartending, which is where she met her husband and a multitude of interesting
people. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s hanging out with her family,
experimenting in her kitchen or doing yoga on the living room floor.

That’s what’s
bouncing around like two alien antennas on top of my cousin Emily’s head. Two,
pink, rubbery penises attached to a cheap headband.

I don’t know how
people celebrate bachelorette parties in other parts of the world, but in the
North East they dress the bride-to-be in sashes and tiaras, force them to wear
pink penis paraphernalia and sacrifice them to male exotic dancers. Emily
doesn’t seem to mind though. She’s sipping champagne happily in the back of an
Escalade stretch limo as we drive through New York City.

“Alana,” says
Jill, Emily’s maid of honor whose personality is just as fiery as her red hair,
“we were taking bets as to whether you were going to come or not.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”
I ask curiously.

“I don’t know?”
she holds her hands up like she’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cutting a year
long trip to Europe short or staying and hanging out with all those hotties on
the French Riviera?”

“She’s only prim
and proper on the outside,” Emily jumps in, defending me.

Thanks Em, but I can take care of myself.

“Why would you
say that? I’m here aren’t I?” I interject. “I’m just not partial to tiny male
underwear. And I think the politically correct term is Male Revue.”

“Whatever,” Jill
laughs at me. “This is the perfect night to let your hair down and get a little
action between your legs.”

“Jill!” Emily
chastises. “They don’t sleep with you.”

“I’m sure if you
paid them enough they would.”

“You’re so
crude,” Emily says.

“I’m just real.
And I’m pretty sure all they’d have to do is take one look at Alana’s blonde
hair, brown eyes and long legs and they’d pay to sleep with her.”

“Well just don’t
let my father find out if that happens,” I say dryly. “I don’t think he’d respond
well to me pimping myself out.”

“I have a feeling
you don’t need monetary transactions for sex,” Jill pours herself a glass of
champagne as we haul down 5th Avenue.

I glance at Emily
and she gives me a sympathetic look.

“Where did you
tell him we were going tonight anyway?” Emily giggles, her bright blue eyes
sparkling, her long dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She’s five foot two
and one hundred pounds soaking wet, but she has the persona of a supermodel;
beautiful, confident, sexy, fun.

“I told him we
were having an early dinner, then seeing a Broadway show. I almost choked on my
granola when he asked me which one. Most of the time, he barely recognizes I’m
alive, but of course the one time I’m not prepared with a cover story, he
catches me,” I shift around in the cream leather seat, trying pull down the
clingy hem of my gold pleated tube dress without much success; if I’m not
careful I’m going to end up giving everyone a pre-show.

“So a male strip
club would have been a no-go with him, huh?” Jill asks sarcastically.

“Like I need to
answer that.”

I’ve known Jill
most of my life and she’s fully aware of my family situation; my father, the
strict, detached man who has stern expectations of his daughter, which includes
an impeccable social image. Me, going to a male strip club? No-go is a drastic
understatement, and she knows it.

“My uncle has
very firm views about how his daughter should act,” Emily says annoyed. “What
she should wear, who she should date, how she should breathe. And he’s
colder than damn ice. I swear I don’t know how our fathers share the same DNA.”
Both our fathers are prestigious figures in the law community. Mine is a
superior court judge in New Jersey while Emily’s is a big shot lawyer in New
York City. They both have a reputation to uphold, but my uncle John is very
personable and laid back and he and Emily have a great relationship. My father
is the exact opposite; stringent, disconnected, career driven. I don’t even
think he has emotions. And we have no relationship.

“So no little
lost strippers following you home then?”

“Jill,” I
roll my eyes.

“Not unless they
have a seven figure paycheck and republicans as parents,” Emily adds wryly.

Everyone in the
limo looks at me and I’m not exactly sure what they’re thinking; it’s probably
a toss-up. They either feel incredibly sorry for me or think I’m some tight ass
who’s going to ruin the fun. If they take one look at my dress they should know
it’s not the latter.

As we drive
through Times Square, the lights on the billboards are flashing and droves of
people are walking. The city is always so alive, bustling, moving, churning. I
love it here. And I’ll love it even more when I live here. I start law school
in three months, and I can’t wait.

It’s nearly eight
o’clock when the limo pulls up to Culture, the only all male ladies club in the
world. At least, that’s what the website boasts. Already, the line is around
the corner with eager women waiting to get in. All six of us step out of the
limo into the New York air. Along with Emily, Jill and I, there’s Beth and Liz
the groom’s two sisters and one of Emily’s roommates from college, Jen. The
smell of hot dogs and pretzels drift in the breeze from the street vendors as
we make our way up the sidewalk. There’s a secondary entrance that has a street
sign with several shirtless men that reads ‘Male Revue’, and when I look closer
I catch some fine print scribbled on the bottom that says ‘lip smackin’ dick’.

Oh man, maybe
I am too straight laced for this.

Emily nudges me
as we wait in line for the doors to open. “Sorry about Jill,” she whispers.

“Why are you
apologizing? She’s right,” I cross my arms. “I do need some action between my
legs, I just have to build up enough nerve to actually let someone in.”

“That’s not the
only place you need to let someone in.”

I bristle, “Em, I
don’t want to dwell on my past. At least not tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” she
concedes, the penises bobbling on her head.

“Are you going to
wear those things all night?” I ask incredulously.

“No, I’m just
going to wait until Jill is drunk enough not to notice I took them off.”

“Well,you shouldn’t be wearing them for too long
then.”

Emily nods
zealously in agreement. I think she likes the shock value of her headband a
little too much.

It’s early May,
so the temperature in the city is comfortable. No one needs jackets or scarfs
or pants, and I think even underwear is optional. As the line behind us grows
rapidly the bouncer finally gives the okay to go inside. I’m bouncing in my
shoes trying to muster enough nerve to actually walk through the door. I’m a
little out of my element here. We file in one behind the other, all walking
carefully down the dark stairwell in our designer heels, making our way into
the club’s private room..

The room is dark
but not cold; there are black leather couches and coffee tables spread out in
front of a small stage that’s maybe a foot off the ground. Very intimate, very
close and very personal. We all sit
down on an L-shaped sofa to the right of the stage, and a few moments later someone
is popping open a bottle of champagne and handing out plastic cups with pink
bubbly liquid in it. I’m suddenly all nerves as the realization of what’s about
to happen kicks in. I gulp the champagne; I don’t think I am going to like this
one bit. I glance around anxiously at all the excited women in the room. A few
have sashes or tiaras that say bachelorette or birthday girl. Emily fits right
in with her headband. She seems relaxed; I think I’d be hyperventilating
knowing some guy is going be grinding all over me in a few minutes.

I take another
sip of champagne.

I watch the
bartenders as they mix drinks behind the bar, hear the muted conversations of
the girls around me and feel the temperature rise as the room fills to
capacity.

What the hell
am I doing? Just before I
get up to go get some air, a smooth male voice washes over the crowd. “Ladies,
ladies, ladies,” the MC announces. Shit. He’s short, with caramel
colored skin and big green eyes; very handsome and very charismatic. He
introduces himself as Hugo, walking back and forth across the stage like he
owns it. He tells a few dirty jokes to warm up the crowd, some of the
women firing back fueling his raunchy lip service. “Okay my fine females, this is
what’s going to happen,” he says with a tantalizing edge to his tone. “There
will a group performance and then private dances, and then one on one time,
where,” he smiles wickedly, “you get to mingle with all the fellas.”

I really think
I need a cigarette.

Hugo tosses the
mic to someone on the side of the stage then disappears behind a door to the
left that’s barely noticeable. It’s been painted black to blend in with the
wall. The DJ pumps a hard core club mix of Rihanna’s Rude Boy, while
smoke blows over us from different corners of the room, it’s cold and smells
bitter. Then that little back door swings open and four men with no shirts,
ripped bodies, and black tuxedo pants file out, bumping to the music. The room
goes absolutely berserk. Women start screaming, bouncing up and down and waiving
dollar bills over their heads as the four guys bump and grind and hump around
the stage in a sexed up routine. They’re hot, there’s no denying it, but I
can’t help but wonder how anyone can do this? Don’t they feel like a slab of
raw meat?

When the Chippendales’
demonstration is done, the dancers disappear into the camouflaged door, leaving
the crowd hot and bothered and apparently ready for more. The lady sitting in
front of us is actually panting. Really?

I glance at Emily
as Hugo reappears. It looks like she’s really getting into this, which I’m
silently thankful for. Emily’s not a prude by any means, but I think even this
could definitely push her limits. It’s certainly pushing mine, and I’m just
watching.

Hugo calls the
first bachelorette onto the stage. Lila, I think her name is. She’s a cute
young girl, almost innocent looking. She’s wearing a tiara and a pink sash that
says bachelorette. Her fake blond hair is loose with curls and she has on a
white button up shirt and jeans. Not very club couture, but whatever. Her
entire party is called up on stage with her, and Hugo instructs them to
decorate her body with dollar bills. The group sticks money where ever they
can, in her pants pockets, between the buttons of her shirt, in her collar and
under her sash; she looks a walking ATM by the time they’re done. Then Lila
sits down on a folding chair on stage. The DJ hits the music again, a fast
version of Sean Paul’s Temperature pumps through the speakers as a guy
dressed in a cop’s uniform explodes onto the stage, all high energy and sexual,
popping his body as he jumps right in front of the Lila. He looks legit in his
navy blue uniform, aviator sunglasses and officers cap. Sergeant Striptease
wastes no time working it; he gets right in Lila’s face, bumping his junk to
the rhythm of the music.

I can’t
believe I’m watching this,
I think as I down more champagne.

He rips his shirt
off displaying his defined chest and six pack abs, then he straddles Lila with
his face towards the crowd, taking her hands he runs them down his front, over
his pecs, stomach and hips. His skin glistens under the stage lights.

I’m not really sure what’s more shocking, the stage show or
the reaction it’s getting. Women are bouncing exuberantly on the leather seats,
shrieking and clapping almost like a bomb went off.

Sergeant
Striptease then stands Lila up and rubs himself all over her; moving up and
down against her body, grabbing the dollar bills out of her shirt with his
teeth. Lila laughs nervously as she holds on to him by his very nice shoulders.
Very,nice shoulders. Then he does something that takes everyone,
especially Lila, by surprise. He grabs her waist and flips her upside down, her
crotch ending up right in his face. He slashes his tongue between her legs,
causing most of the women in the room to scream.

Like,
bloodcurdling screams.

I’m not even
capable of an auditory response; my vocal cords have shorted out and my jaw has
dropped to the floor.

Raunch-y.

Then he puts her
down and whispers in her ear, she nods back at him with a smile; her eyes wide
and alight. He sits her back down in the chair and proceeds to take off the
rest of his clothes, which is actually just a quick tug of his pants. All he
has on underneath is a black g-string with, holy shit, tassels covering
his penis. Where do you even find a get up like that? He does one more bump and
grind on Lila, practically naked, and then the show is over.

Emily looks over
at me. Her eyebrows lifted high like she can’t believe what she just
witnessed.

“Yeah girl,
that’s all you,” I yell to her over the music and she laughs.

I wonder how much
laughing she’s going to do when it’s her on that stage?

Hugo reappears,
announcing the next girl, Holly, and she looks absolutely petrified. She too,
has blonde hair, but I think it’s natural; no dark roots. She’s wearing a white
eyelet dress and fresh faced makeup. She looks almost virginal and I feel sorry
for her already.

Holly sits in the
folding chair, wound tighter than a spring and littered with dollar bills all
over her body. I couldn’t do it. I could never sit up there and have some guy I
don’t know hump all over me. It would just feel wrong. For me. I admire the
other women in the room who are rearing to go. Maybe I am a prude?

The lights dim as
Holly sits alone on the stage, but no one comes out the camouflaged door.
There’s low haunting music playing and smoke curling up from the floor. Then I
notice Holly’s face. She’s gone pale. Everyone turns around to see what she’s
looking at. And there, sauntering toward the stage is a guy dressed in black leather
pants and a mask covering his whole head, a whip in his hand.

Holy BDSM.

“Ladies, the
Dominator,” Hugo announces and Holly absolutely shits. I can’t say I blame her.
All I want to do is run up there and rescue her.

The Dominator
gets onto the stage and starts doing a seductive dance over Holly, grabbing her
hair and yanking her head back as he straddles her with his mask on.

My mind goes numb
as I watch; it feels like an out of body experience it’s so far out of my
sexual scope of understanding. The Dominator then pulls Holly to her feet,
bends her over and starts smacking her ass, hard. Then he mercilessly pumps her
from behind and I have to look away.

I think I’m
scarred for life.

After that he
sits her back down in the chair. It looks like she’s just smoked up, she’s so
starry eyed. Then he rips off his mask and starts again with the intense
humping; his crotch right in her face. Good lord.

He’s not bad
looking with his bald head, big light eyes and a really nice smile. Like,
really nice. Almost endearing, which is weird.

Then he does
something that actually impresses me. Somehow, he gets his feet over her head,
planting them against the back wall of the stage, his ass facing the crowd and
humps her from upside down. For a guy who’s tall, bulky and muscled, he’s
limber, I’ll give him that. Then he kicks himself down and pulls Holly to her
feet. He picks out all the dollar bills with his teeth, and then plants a huge
kiss on her cheek. She was a damn good sport. I would have bolted the moment I
saw him walking my way. Given you could actually pay me enough to get up on
that stage in the first place.

Now it’s Emily’s
turn.

“Okay ladies,”
the charming Hugo announces. “You’re in for a real treat,” he says as Jill,
Beth, Liz, Jen and I dress Emily in dollar bills. She’s by far sexiest and most
trendily dressed girl in the room. She has on a tight black body suit that’s
short sleeved and high collared. A flared mini skirt and a pair of black
stockings that give the illusion of thigh highs; hooch couture is what I call
it. With her tiny little frame she rocks the outfit perfectly. We were able to
get twice as many dollar bills on Emily compared to the other girls. Even her
black bootie high heels have Washington’s sticking out of them. She looks like
a scarecrow stuffed with green straw.

“Next up is one
of our premier dancers. So get ready, set, wet for Jack the Stripper!” he says
as he hops off the stage.

The beginning
beats of Ginuwine’s Pony blasts through the speakers as a shirtless guy
with a cowboy hat and eye mask grooves his way out of the black door. Now him I
could be into. He’s tall and lean, totally toned, with sun kissed skin and a
hot looking mouth. Emily got lucky with this one, thank God. I watch as he
dances to the stage in a pair of loose fitting blue jeans with rips in the
thighs and knees, the elastic of his underwear peeking above the waist of his
pants. As soon as Emily sees him, a big smile spreads across her face and I
breathe a sigh of relief. She’s into him. And seriously, who wouldn’t be?

The melody
changes to a house rendition of As Long As You Love Me and Jack the
Stripper moves seductively to the beat of the music, grinding sensually on
Emily; his fluid body undulating all over her. I’ll admit, I’ve never equated
Justin Bieber to stripper music, but this guy makes it work, and damn can he
move. My mouth is getting dry just watching this. The entire room is responding
to him; pleasured screams and erotic moans are echoing from every which way as
he works Emily on stage. No wonder Hugo called him premier; it’s as if he knows
exactly what a woman wants and exactly how to give it to her. He’s already
broken down the entire room with just his confidence and sexuality. That’s
impressive.

In the middle of
his dance, with his hat and eye mask still on, he lifts Emily’s chair, with her
still in it, and flips her up and around, inducing screams and shouts from the
audience. With a big smile he places her back down, and then starts to undo his
pants, teasing her and us with glimpses of his ass. Before he drops his jeans
he rips off his hat and flings it into the crowd revealing thick, brown hair
that’s short on the sides and longer on top; his bangs spilling over his
forehead hipster style. Hot. Then he kneels in front of Emily, only his
side profile visible. He whispers something into her ear, she glances at him
oddly then slides two fingers under his eye mask; she rips it off and turns
white. I can’t really see his face from my angle, but whoever he is, he spooked
her. They both seem to freeze for a fraction of a second; his back muscles
tensing. What the hell is going on? Then she nods her head yes, as if
encouraging him on. He stands up, faces the crowed and proceeds to take off his
pants. That’s when my heart drops dead in my chest. I glance at Emily and she’s
staring straight at me, a manifold of emotions churning on her face because we
both just witnessed my past strip to life.